Epilogue
Iwalked in three-inch stilettos through the glass doors of my agency, listening to the sharp, satisfying click of my heels on the marble. Six months ago, my feet had been bare, numb, and dragging uselessly across the hardwood of my own living room.
Now, the echoing rhythm of my stride commanded the open floor plan. Telephones rang in the distance, keyboards clattered, and the office hummed with the activity of fifty employees.
A junior copywriter carrying a stack of printed mockups stepped out of the main aisle to let me pass.
“Good afternoon, Audrey,” Mark said, offering a respectful, hurried nod.
“Afternoon, Mark,” I replied, smoothing the lapel of my tailored suit. “Leave the Vanguard files on my desk.”
Pushing open the solid wood door to my corner office, I stepped into a room flooded with blinding afternoon sunlight. Lawrence Stanton was already waiting at the circular glass conference table near the windows. A thick, sealed legal file rested squarely in front of his steepled fingers.
I walked directly to my desk and dropped my heavy leather work bag onto the polished mahogany.
Freeing my hands, I moved over to the espresso machine sitting on the side credenza.
I pressed the silver dial. The machine hummed instantly to life, grinding beans and filling the cool air with the rich, roasted scent of coffee.
Waiting for the liquid to pour, I shifted my weight from side to side. A dull, steady ache flared in my calves. It was the physical aftermath of a three-mile run in the hills this morning. I closed my eyes and leaned into the sensation, relishing the bite of sore muscle.
It was a pain I had chosen, a temporary soreness born from pushing my own physical limits. It felt like genuine freedom compared to the terrifying, manufactured paralysis Simon had trapped me in. I owned the floor I stood on, and nobody was pulling my strings.
The machine hissed, dispensing a final layer of foam.
I picked up the two steaming ceramic mugs and carried them over to the table.
I slid one across the smooth glass surface toward Lawrence, then took the leather chair opposite him.
I wrapped both hands firmly around my mug, focusing on the steady heat seeping into my palms.
“Good afternoon, Audrey,” Lawrence said. His sharp eyes tracked my posture as he picked up his drink. “You’re moving perfectly today.”
I took a slow sip of the bitter espresso, letting the dark liquid burn slightly at the back of my throat. Setting the cup down on a coaster, I nodded toward the closed folder.
“Thank you, Lawrence,” I said, maintaining steady eye contact. “I ran three miles this morning. What’s the final word from the DA?”
Lawrence adjusted his tie and rested his hand flat over the file. “It’s done. They both accepted the plea deals late last night.”
My pulse remained entirely steady.
“How much time did the judge give them?”
Lawrence broke the adhesive seal on the thick manila folder and pulled a stapled stack of court documents onto the glass, the stiff paper rustling loudly. He scanned the top page, his silver eyebrows lifting slightly.
“Simon gets twenty years. Nina gets fifteen. No possibility of early parole for either of them.”
Twenty years. I stared at the faint reflection of the city skyline in the glass table. The number repeated in my head, stark and absolute. Two decades trapped in a concrete cell. For the last six months, survival had been a daily, exhausting math equation.
Counting the minutes Simon was out of the house. Counting the agonizing steps I could take before my calves gave out on the cold garage floor. Now, the counting was finally over. I let out a long, slow breath, feeling my shoulders sag as the tight, knotted muscles at the base of my neck unraveled.
Lawrence flipped to the back of the file. He extracted a single sheet of watermarked paper bearing the bright red seal of a state judge. He turned it around and slid the final dissolution of marriage decree across the table.
I set my ceramic mug down on the coaster, pulling my hand away from the heat.
Reaching across the table, I picked up a silver pen, uncapped it, and leaned forward.
The metal nib scratched sharply against the thick paper as I signed my name on the bottom line.
I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t feel a single ounce of grief.
When the final loop of my signature was complete, I set the pen aside. I pressed the pad of my thumb against the signature, feeling the slight, raised texture of the ink as it smeared just a fraction under my skin. The finality of it set in. I wasn’t Simon’s victim, and I was no longer his wife.
A hard, genuine smile curved my mouth. I pushed the paper back to Lawrence.
I kept my voice steady. “Good. Let them sit in it. Are my accounts completely untangled from his?”
Lawrence gathered the papers and knocked their edges against the table to straighten them. “Everything is entirely yours. The company, the house, the money. You don’t have to look over your shoulder ever again.”
The distant, muffled hum of downtown traffic drifted through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I leaned back in my leather chair, looking out at the sprawling city I had taken back.
“Thank you, Lawrence. For everything.”
The asphalt faded into a winding dirt road, my headlights cutting through the encroaching tree line.
I navigated the steep incline, leaving the noise and the concrete of the city miles behind me.
The tires ground over loose gravel, the loud crunch echoing against the timber as I pulled into the steep mountain driveway.
I shifted the car into park and killed the engine.
The sudden silence swallowed the property.
Through the windshield, the front porch light flicked on, illuminating the wooden deck.
I let my forehead rest against the leather steering wheel for a moment, exhaling a long, slow breath.
“Finally,” I muttered into the empty cab.
I grabbed the canvas overnight bag from the passenger seat and pushed the door open. Crisp mountain air filled my chest, carrying the distinct scent of crushed pine needles. I slung the bag over my shoulder, the thick strap biting into my collarbone, and shut the car door.
Owen stepped out of the cabin, wearing a faded henley and jeans. He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his arms. He didn’t speak. Instead, his hazel eyes dropped directly to my boots. He watched me cross the gravel and climb the wooden porch steps.
I kept my spine straight, letting him watch the effortless way I took the steps. My calves burned slightly from my morning run, but I welcomed the ache. Six months ago, I couldn’t bear my own weight on a bare concrete floor. Now, I was walking up to his front door without a single hesitation.
I reached the top step. Before I could speak, Owen closed the distance between us. He slid his hand under the canvas strap, lifted the bag off my shoulder, and dropped it onto the wooden deck. It hit the floorboards with a loud thud.
His large hands immediately clamped around my waist. He pulled me flush against his chest, holding me tightly in his radiating heat.
The strict, untouchable boundaries we had kept for the last six months vanished the second his hands gripped my hips.
The rough texture of his beard scraped against my cheek.
A tight, sudden heat bloomed low in my stomach.
The calloused hands gripping my hips were the exact same ones that had ruthlessly forced my deadened nerves to wake up in the middle of the night.
Now, the clinical necessity was gone. I was starving for his touch.
Owen stepped back just enough to look at my face. “You made good time. How are the legs feeling?”
I kept my hands resting flat against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart. “They feel fine. Lawrence finalized the paperwork today. Simon got twenty years.”
His face went rigid with restrained anger. “It’s done, then.”
“It’s done. I’m exactly where I want to be right now.”
Owen grabbed the collar of my sweater and pulled me across the threshold. He kicked the heavy oak door shut behind us, pinning my back against the wood. His mouth crashed into mine. The kiss was frantic, wet, and hungry, devoid of the careful restraint he’d shown for half a year.
I tangled my fingers in his hair, opening my mouth to let him deepen the kiss. The taste of mint and coffee filled my mouth. I pulled him closer, actively matching his desperate rhythm.
He grabbed the hem of my sweater, pulling it up and over my head in one swift motion. He unclasped my bra, stripping the lace away, and let both garments drop to the floor. Cool air hit my bare chest, but the chill was instantly replaced by the hot slide of his mouth against my skin.
He dropped to his knees. His calloused hands gripped the backs of my bare thighs as he left a wet trail of open-mouthed kisses down my stomach.
My breath hitched. His tongue traced my skin, sending a rush of heat straight down my legs.
The overwhelming sensation wiped away the last lingering ghosts of my old life.
He stood back up, his hazel eyes sharp with focus.
Before I could speak, his hands locked onto my hips.
He lifted me off the floor, hauling my weight with ease, and carried me three steps across the room.
He set me down on the edge of a thick, solid dining table.
The blunt wood bit into my lower back. I leaned backward, bracing my palms flat against the varnished surface to steady myself.
He didn’t hesitate. He unbuttoned my jeans, shoving the denim and my underwear down. Once I kicked my boots off, I pushed the tangled fabric away until my legs were bare. He stepped directly between my parted knees. The metallic rasp of his zipper echoed in the quiet cabin.
He pushed forward.
The sudden fullness of his entry completely stole my breath. I dug my fingernails hard into the rigid line of his shoulders to anchor myself. He drove forward again, establishing a brutal, unyielding pace.
For six months, I had been handled like something fragile and made of glass. But Owen didn’t coddle me. He gripped my hips hard, demanding everything I had to give. I leaned into the rough handling, letting the sheer friction wipe away everything outside this room.
The loud slap of skin against skin echoed off the timber walls.
“I’ve been waiting six months to do this,” Owen groaned against the crook of my neck, his hot breath dampening my skin.
I gasped, tightening my grip on his shoulders as he drove into me again. “You were the one who insisted on keeping things strictly professional during rehab.”
He pulled back just enough to look me in the eye. The careful, clinical therapist from the garage was completely gone, replaced by a man gazing at me with raw, urgent hunger. He thrust harder, sending a sharp jolt of heat straight up my spine.
“You aren’t my patient anymore,” he rasped, his hands locking hard around my waist. “I’m not holding back.”
I arched into him, meeting his rhythm with my newly recovered strength. “Don’t you dare hold back. Keep going. Right there.”
Owen didn’t break his hold on me. He hooked his forearms under my bare thighs and lifted me completely off the solid wood.
I wrapped my legs tightly around his waist to steady myself as he carried us the few short steps into the bedroom.
He fell backward onto the mattress. The springs groaned, the soft surface sinking deep beneath our combined weight.
I didn’t let him keep the leverage. Planting my hands squarely against his chest, I shoved his shoulders flat against the sheets and shifted my weight to straddle him.
Riding him required absolute physical control. Six months ago, my own legs couldn’t support my weight. Now, I locked my knees against his ribs, using every bit of my recovered strength to drive the deep, unyielding rhythm. My thighs burned with the exertion, but it was a victorious, fiery ache.
I relished the intense friction, pushing myself harder just to prove the strength was really there.
Owen’s large hands slid up to grip my hips.
His calluses scraped pleasantly across my skin as he helped me grind down against him.
He didn’t try to flip me or take the power back.
He surrendered the pace entirely to me, his jaw clenching tight as he watched me move above him.
Our driving, rhythmic pace dominated the quiet room.
Sweat slicked my chest, cooling instantly in the mountain draft blowing through the cracked window.
The tension spiked, winding into a tight, rigid knot at the base of my spine until it finally gave way.
The climax hit me in a blinding, rushing wave.
I cried out, the sound bouncing off the timber walls.
My newly recovered strength finally gave out. I collapsed forward, my weight resting heavily on him. I went completely limp, pressing my ear firmly to his bare skin. The rapid, frantic drumming of his pulse vibrated directly against my cheek.
Owen wrapped his arms around my bare back, holding me flush as he gasped for air, his body heaving beneath me.
“God, Audrey,” he breathed, his voice a low, raspy hum vibrating under my ear. “You’re incredible.”
I nudged my face up his neck until my slick forehead met the rasp of his stubble. I was panting, my lungs burning slightly. “I told you I was getting my strength back.”
He let out a short, breathless laugh. His fingers tangled gently into the damp hair at the nape of my neck, massaging the tight muscles there.
I closed my eyes. The sharp edge of adrenaline finally burned off, leaving me completely still.
The terror of Simon’s gaslighting, the sterile tile of the hospital, the agonizing midnight stretches on the hardwood floor—all of it faded into nothing.
My body was entirely my own again. I was safe.
Owen turned his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss into my hair. “I love you. You know that, right?”
I shifted my weight, settling deeper into the mattress and the secure cage of his arms.
“I love you too, Owen,” I whispered.
I closed my eyes and listened to the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heart. I had survived, and for the first time in my life, I was finally home.